The Tremors, The Grates @ Hopetoun Hotel, 6/06/04

Two Brisbane bands bring a touch of the tropical to a slow Sydney Sunday.

The Grates' frontwoman Patience Hodgson is a sterling advertisment for the benefits of youth, clean living, and a shitload of red cordial.

While the drum-guitar-and-vox combo's tunes stand on their own - while not exactly reinventing the wheel, the trio provided a great set's worth of exuberant Yeah Yeah Yeahs-styled rave-ups rooted in childhood reminiscence - it's their singer's energy levels that keep most enthralled during their set. Perhaps it could be the threat of being followed by the stage-slamming beast that is Geoff Corbett, perhaps it could be the result of an enviable sugar rush, but for the short set these guys were on stage for - during which it seemed they shoehorned in at least three hundred tunes - she was a jumping bean. Literally. There was hardly a tune that was delivered from a static position: arse-shaking, aerial moonwalking, foot-slamming - it was all in evidence during the set.

The JJJ favourite tune Trampoline won some head-nodding approval from the crowd, while oddly endearing songs about mosquitoes and Snakes And Ladders gave punters a look into the cracked world the band inhabits. It's all very BRIGHTSHINYSUPERFUNHAPPY! but it's handled with such sweetness and doggone enthusiasm that you can't help but get into it. (And, a reliable source mentions, guitarist John Patterson is kinda cute.) The Grates' music is childlike, and impossible to decode, and seems like something that was thrown together for a school fete - and that's precisely why it works.

Special mention must go to drummer Alana Skyring, who throughout the set laid down some fearsomely steel-fisted beats, and generally kept the show on the road, providing the backbone that, if missing, could have seen things end rather terribly.

Then, it was Tremors Time. The four-piece ensemble have recently been laying down tracks for their forthcoming long-player at Big Jesus Burger with Jon Boy Rock. And judging from the snarl when they took to the stage, they've been suffering from a little cabin fever. So, with a little setting-the-scene-in-a-cruise-bar tete-a-tete happening, they kicked into the first song, dedicated to The Beat, a notorious nightclub in Brisvegas. Consisting of little more than the mantra "The Beat goes off!" over and over again, it was proof that the band's tightness has become damn-near impenetrable. Sure, there's the expected sliding and slipping across the stage that we've come to expect, but there was much more of a sense of slicked-back danger in evidence tonight.

"Is it OK with you if we just play new stuff?" Geoff asked the crowd at one point, just after deciding to nix Keep It On from the set proper. There wasn't much argument - the tunes that had been given an airing this evening fairly crackled, they were so loaded with energy. From straight-out rockers (the already-released Mirrors, introduced as a tribute to drummer Cec Condon (who'd jokingly been referred to as having to be gaffa taped to his drum stool so he didn't float off) to unbelieveably soulful Lovin' You - a song that's so tearjerking in its use of wailed chorus and gut-punched feel that it already feels like a canonical number that you've heard belted out by one of the greats. True, there's a sort of sordid tang to The Tremors' tastes - Monkey being about a traumatic, drug-effected relationship - but it's wrapped with such canny use of rhythm that it's impossible not to get on board.

Oh, and there was some top-of-the-bar crooning, too, as fans have come to expect.

Keep It On - after its unceremonious dumping earlier in the set - made its appearance as the band's encore tune. Back by popular demand and treated like a James Brown musical experience, the tune meandered over an extended, drawn out intro, before guitarist Dan Baebler kicked in with the signature riff. Eleanor Logan's trumpet and vocals added a soulful note to Geoff's rough-as-guts wailing, and the flirty interplay that there'd been between the two came to a head in some punter-pleasing exhibitionism - the keyboardist left the stage, climbed up a pole and proceeded to gyrate, delivering the final verses in feigned ecstasy. (And somehow, it looked as if Geoff was musing why he hadn't thought of that move earlier.)

Leaving the stage, one couldn't help but realise that The Tremors are approaching the sort of get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way sense of assuredness and strength that people normally reserve for stampeding zoo animals or rocks heading for the earth, destined to obliterate it. The time in the studio has affected their poise on the stage, and they're playing more tightly than ever before. The soulful-yet-funky touches that made Jon Spencer big are there, but with a frontman who deserves the gaze. Showmanship, musical communication and a hearty does of arse-shaking is what the band has to offer - and there's not many out there who can do it better.

So there you have it: charged frontpeople, dry-humped support poles and a whole load of broken glasses. Not your average night in the Hoey, but a bloody good one.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Shannon Wright - Over The Sun

The perennially-dumped punk-folk songstress returns with an album that won't let you go until you're heartsick and headached.

Shannon Wright has opened on tour for Nick Cave, which should immediately tell you something about her style of music. A live performer known for almost painfully personal gigs, she's rooted deep in the southern gothic neck of the woods; a place of betrayals and of misdemeanours, of love lost and lovers fucked over.

This isn't going to be an easy listening encounter.

The cover of Over The Sun, shows the singer-songwriter at the controls of some film editing equipment, creating some mysterious work. And it's probably the best way to describe the disc in its entirety. There's a sense of working towards something, but Shannon's the only one with a clear idea of what it is - we're not at the controls and are just along for the ride. It can't help but feel, though, like we're going to end up at the dentist's office, and not Disneyland. The power in Wright's voice can't undo the feeling that all the songs are pushing the listener towards a bad place, towards a finale that's going to do nobody any good. With titles like You'll Be The Death and Plea living up to their tissue-paper-in-the-rain promise, there is certainly a lack of room for light here. There's Leonard Cohen discs with more joie de vivre attached.

Musically, however, this album is compelling, though it does lapse into repetition a little too often for its own good. With room-filling drum work from Christina Files, the only other contributor is Wright herself, providing spiky guitar that refuses to be pinned down - at once forming coherent riffs, at other times making confrontational attacks on your ears. There's keyboards throughout - the disc opens with a small mellotron interlude (which returns, disturbingly, later in the disc) before the crash of guitars sweeps it asunder - and it's these moments that provide respite from the angular guitar onslaught of off-kilter riffs. At various places, it sounds like the electric keyboard from mid-period Led Zeppelin has been roped into duty, and it adds a strangely spacious contrast to Wright's cramped guitar work. Indeed, one of the most affecting tracks on Over The Sun is entirely piano-driven - Avalanche. Through the tune, Wright cajoles simple chords out of the piano, reminiscent of some of A Silver Mt. Zion's work for its lonely, played-in-a-scout-hall feel. The playing style is deceptively accomplished - from Philip Glass-like moments to childishly-thumped passages, it's here that the performer's true range is explored, and it's the song that benefits the most from the absence of guitary artiness.

It took three years from the release of Dyed In The Wool - a time of continual touring and refinement of her legendarily passionate live shows - for Wright to get around to recording this disc. Someone so intense would naturally chose Steve Albini to handle their production - though some would argue the term should be preceded by the words "lack of". However, it's perfectly suited to Wright's musical vision. There's not a lot in the way of trickery, except for the way the vocals are mixed. At once, they whisper in your ear but seem maddeningly out of reach. There's always the thought that the singing should be louder, so apparent is the strain that's heard in some songs - the wail in Throw A Blanket Over The Sun is heartbreaking - but it all seems to hang together well. There's an almost-falling-apart quality to the drum sound on here - a familiar thing if you?re aware of Albini's other work - and it gives more weight to the desperation, to the rawness that lards the tunes.

The biggest complaint about Wright?s writing is that it ploughs the same furrow, largely. Musically, even. This is by no means a bad thing - many artists have made great careers from doing one thing and doing it well - but Wright's song writing is occasionally akin to stumbling across your obsessive-compulsive sister's diary, post-break-up. Being done wrong, continual recurrence of confessional admissions of worthlessness abound, and end up tiring, rather than revealing. A bit of levity to balance out the grim nature of this recording wouldn't go astray, and would probably even out the relentlessly bummed feeling that pervades every song here - eventually becoming so cloying that you'll have to rip out some brainless pop to stop yourself from rooting around in the knife drawer.

Ultimately, Over The Sun has a sort of narrow-lipped tension-headache feel that makes it a difficult disc to sympathise with. There's plenty of emotion through its length, but it's wrapped so tightly that it's difficult to penetrate - or escape. Like black writing on black paper, there's an inscrutable quality here that's intriguing, but makes for very hard going, listener-wise. It's rewarding if you persevere with it - masochism can bring rewards! - but this is certainly not an album that allows you to put it on as background listening: it cajoles and bludgeons its way into the limelight. There's no doubt that this is a heartfelt, intensely personal album, but it's one that isn't likely to find its way into the player much, unless climbing the walls while hopped up on red wine and heartbreak is a regular occurrence around your place.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

PJ Harvey - The Letter

After a couple of years' wait, the first single from PJ Harvey's new album hints at the blacker points of her past.

This, the first single from the Uh Huh Her album contains the biggest hint we�ve had yet that the evil, voodoo-crazy PJ Harvey of old is kicking at the door and waiting to come out into the light again.

Opening to with a detuned, low-down riff that reverberates in your gut, Harvey�s almost-funky-but-not-quite playing immediately kicks The Letter into a strange place. Rising in accordance with lyrical emphasis, an organic sound�s created, beaten into shape by Rob Ellis�s skittish drumming. There�s an element of languor conveyed by breathy vocals, invoking a lover�s scent on a communiqu�, placed at odds with the ominous bassy rumbles that pepper the music.

There�s moments of vocal affectation here that have Polly Jean sounding more like Siouxsie Sioux � her words trailing off into a tunnel of echo that ventures into the realm of the banshee (if you�ll excuse the pun). Rather than sounding operatic � as Harvey has done previously � it sounds more unsettling, unworldlier. The final words of the song ring as if they�re coming across the ether, communicated by ghosts.

Lyrically, the song continues Harvey�s highly sexualised investigations into passion and communication. Sure, this is a tune about a letter, but when she describes licking a pen, removing a lid, gnawing the stationery and the shape of her g� well, you get the idea. There�s the idea of eavesdropping, of intercepting cryptic, private notes shared between lovers who are running out of time. As ever, PJ Harvey exists in a world of shadow, seen obliquely by the outsider who can�t penetrate it, no matter how much they desire entrance. And it�s frustratingly seductive, whetting the appetite for a fuller exploration of such ideas.

It just might be the case, judging by the bass-heavy, soup-thick sound that�s on this sample track that the dusty hellishness of To Bring You My Love is once more at the front of the PJ Harvey sound. While it�s not as immediate as some of her other work, there�s a creeping nature to this tune that sees it embedded in your head after only a couple of plays. Here�s hoping the level of mystery bodes well for the album.

The commercially released version of The Letter in single format contains three additional tracks: The Phone Song, Bows & Arrows and The Falling.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Casanovas - The Casanovas

One of the hardest-working bands in the land survived lineup change and taping delays to release their debut. And it's one of the best - and dumbest - Oz Rock albums you're likely to hear.

You love AC/DC, don't you? Admit it. You do. You're thinking of a couple of Angus Young riffs right now, aren't you?

So is guitarist, vocalist and self-confessed Acca-Dacca enthusiast Tommy Boyce. But he's not only admitting his love � he's shouting it from the rooftops with his two partners in crime (Damo Campbell on vocals and bass and ex-The Onyas drummer Jaws) � who, together, make up the Melbournian trio of raunch-merchants The Casanovas. Their debut album � after a string of smaller releases � is filled with the sort of sly-grin shenanigans and fabulous fret-busting riffage that makes those elders of Oz Rock so damn enjoyable.

There's an element of the naughty to The Casanovas that seems to be missing from many bands. The band exists in that special place that most rock bands have since eschewed, unless they're somehow connected to David Lee Roth or KISS � the Oo-Er Missus Fun Zone. Big, dumb rock? Hell yes. After all, AC/DC were tough as hell, but there's also a large element of behind-the-hand sniggering going on almost all the way through. (You have heard Big Balls, right? Come on!) The songs on this album exist in a wonderfully fun place. It's like they've been bodily lifted from a risqu� '80s movie � and this is by no means a denigration of their achievement. This is the sort of album that you'd play on the way to the beach with the windows down, whistling and playing steering-wheel drums. It's got a sort of naughty innocence - or ignorance? - floating throughout that remains miraculously good natured for the length of the disc, and it's one that endears the group to you. Yeah, they've only got one song, give or take - but it's a bloody good one, and they rip through it well enough to ensure it stays interesting. It's one of those discs with perfectly-timed intervals to allow the armchair guitarist to stick their crotch out and go �Uhhhhhh!� in Big Rock Mode; in other words, it�s eminently, wonderfully enjoyable.

Livin' In The City is probably the finest example on the album of the bad-boy-with-attitude storytelling The Casanovas purvey. Of course, the tale about getting out of a hick slum to move to the big city to try coke and get a shag is bookended with some fantastically plain living lyrics:

So I got a place
I wasn�t lonely
I ordered pizza
With pepperoni

Fabulous. Na�ve first experiences in the big, bad city distilled down to a pizza box: there�s honesty amongst the twelve-bar raunch, and that�s what appeals so greatly about this disc. It�s not pretending to be anything grandiose or life changing. But it is some of the most honest rock you�ll hear � and that�s without mentioning that this is a bunch of blokes that can pull off that Twisted Sister vocal doubling/falsetto thing and get it right (Break Your Heart). A rarity, that.

Of all the tunes on the album, there's only one real weak one - Here's To It - but even this isn't too bad an imposition on the ears. It's a substantially rockin' tune (with some wonderful slide guitar) but pales in comparison to some of the absolute fist-pumpers that it sits alongside. It�s the only real misstep � and that�s only because the chorus doesn�t live up to the opening riff�s promise � of an album of tight rock that�s mindful of the big names of Oz pub rock�s glory days without becoming too slavishly forelock-tugging. Heartbeat has hints of the You Am I (at their most beat-drummed) to it, Strange Dreams is almost a Hoodoo Gurus number, while tracks like Shake It and Runnin� So Late are so perfectly formed that they fairly beg to be included in the chase scene of a caper flick. So strong are the rhythms, so meshed the trio�s playing and so fluid � though not ostentatious � the guitar soloing that there�s just no way you�ll be able to stop involuntary bodily rocking-out movements while this album�s on. Fact.

Clocking in at 37 minutes, there's no room for filler on this album. Each of the ten songs on disc is pretty solid, presumably as a result of the extended recording period taken to get 'em down, coupled with the amount of touring that the band have undertaken. Sharing stages with The Datsuns and The Living End - not to mention Rose Tattoo - would force any group to tighten up, but in the case of The Casanovas, this would seem an impossible task. They're about as tight as bands come: the playing on The Casanovas sounds devoid of screw-ups, but somehow this is managed without sacrificing the great feel that the band�s rocking out, sneaker-clad in the same room, replete with devil�s horns and rock tongue action. Sure, there's nothing original really going on here. But that's fine. There's nothing original going on on Jet records, either. But there's a lot more fun � and a lot less pilfered riffs � on The Casanovas than there are on most retro-rock big things' discs. And they've even got the common decency not to screw up the party with any of those wussy ballads.

Well done, those men

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.